A note on handwriting
My handwriting has been getting worse for years, and I have stopped minding. It was never beautiful. It was a tool for getting words out of the head before they cooled.
But there is something in the bad handwriting that typing cannot reproduce: the record of speed. You can see where I hurried, where I paused, where a thought arrived faster than the pen. The page has a pulse.
I would not want anyone to read my notebooks. That is not what they are for. They are not a record of what I thought. They are a record of thinking — the messy, physical, temporary thing that precedes the sentence.